


Momentum

by abundantlyqueer



Series: Kissing Boys [5]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-08-30
Updated: 2003-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-13 01:30:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abundantlyqueer/pseuds/abundantlyqueer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I can't," Elijah gasps. "I gotta be in makeup at six forty-five, that's ten minutes."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Momentum

**Author's Note:**

> Happens not too long after "Talented"

You get used to seeing some incredible things around here -- resting Uruk'hai holding icepacks to their strangely small and pink heads, an eight-foot stilt-walking wizard chatting with a five-foot-five hobbit wearing hiking boots on his small feet, Liv wearing a diaphanous dress over white cotton boxer briefs. And still, something can happen that makes everyone just stop and stare in awe.

Right now, in the pink and gold flush of early morning sunlight, that something is Legolas Greenleaf running flat-out across an open car-park area to where the actors' trailers are set up.

Orli's spent so many location days running up hills and down hills and across streams and back across the same streams that he's genuinely acquired the fluid head-high hands-low stride of a distance runner. His long legs just eat up the ground efficiently, and the effect beats the hell out of whatever elfishly graceful thing he was doing earlier in the shoot.

His bow, quiver, and knife-sheath are all slung on his back, tethering the soft fabric of his Lothlorien cloak against his spine, so that the folds baffle around his thighs as he runs. His wheat white hair streams behind him, catching and curling in his hood and on the leather shoulder carapaces he's been wearing since Helm's Deep.

Breakfasting technicians and stylists stop in mid-gesture as he flows past them, their faces opening into delighted smiles at the sudden unexpected spilling of their imagination out into the real world. Legolas doesn't seem to even see them, his gaze fixed steadily on something in the near distance. Someone draws breath to yell a warning about the ice chest on the ground, but he's already over it, the leap low and quick and knitted into the rhythm of his stride.

He takes the steps leading up to the hobbits' trailer door in one jump, wrenches the door open, and whirls inside in a flurry of cloak folds and flying hair.

"Elijah!" he calls, stripping the assemblage of bow and quiver and sheath off over his head as he strides to the bathroom door then whips back when he hears movement in the sitting room.

"Orli -- what's -- ?"

Elijah's standing there, scruffy in tee shirt and jeans, eyes round with surprise and mouth soft with uncertainty. Orli dumps his weaponry on the couch and crosses the space between them in three long steps and Elijah just has time to lift his head and ask

"Is something -- ?"

before Orli grabs him and pulls him close and swoops down to cover Elijah's open mouth with his own. Elijah convulses, hands fisting on Orli's arms and trying to push him off, but Orli's just come off fourteen weeks of fighting stunt players for seven hours every night, and four hours rehearsing the fight sequences every day. He's gotten insanely fucking strong.

Elijah tries to cry out, the sound half-killed by the press of Orli's mouth on his, and his resistance turns to clawing desperation. Orli wrenches back from the kiss, bright blue eyes snapping fire and dark brows knitting together tightly.

"Come on, give it up," he growls, hands fastening on Elijah's denim-clad hips.

"I can't," Elijah gasps. "I gotta be in makeup at six forty-five, that's ten minutes."

"Then let's work fast," Orli urges, his fingers already at the buttons of Elijah's jeans.

"Oh God oh God," Elijah moans, his fine dark brows twisting in an agony of indecision, even as his arms slide around Orli's armored shoulders. "Wait a second, you're dressed up as a fuckin' elf."

"In ten minutes? I don't think so," Orli mutters, pushing denim and cotton down and out of his way and closing his fingers around the silky warmth of Elijah's half-hard erection. "Dressed up as a fast blow job elf."

Elijah laughs and shivers and bites down on his own lip as Orli squeezes him, just firmly enough to make the blood pounding in Elijah's flesh push back in annoyance and bring Elijah to aching hardness in the space between one heart beat and the next. Orli puts both hands on Elijah's waist under the thin cotton of his tee-shirt and guides him backwards, Elijah stumbling the couple of feet it takes to put his spine against the wall. Elijah glances at the clock on the shelf: 06.36. Nine minutes left.

Orli drops to his knees, and something in Elijah's stomach flutters blood red as Orli takes hold of him again with one hand, while the other expertly gathers up the stream of Legolas's pale hair and sweeps it back over Orli's shoulders. Orli leans in, head tipped slightly to one side, and Elijah's world slides out from under him, leaving him with only softness and warmth and wetness and the press of the wall against his spine.

"Oh fucking - motherfucking - oh yeah," he grinds, his body flexing in anguished need and driving his pelvis forward.

Orli grips him by the hips, not holding him back, just riding his movements with perfect ease. Elijah's hands smack back hard on the wall and his fingers turn to claws against the linen-finish wall paper.

"Oh God - help me," he moans, and his glance falls on the clock again: 06:38. Seven minutes.

Orli's mouth works on him deeply and strongly; Elijah can feel a thickening buzz gathering already, but knowing the clock is flipping relentlessly through the available time is distracting him. To avoid looking at the clock again, Elijah looks down at Orli.

That's just wrong - wrong, but unbelievably fucking hot. Elijah's seen Legolas do a bunch of stuff - kick orc-ass every which way, pluck a flying arrow from the air and redraw it on his own bow, stare down an army of ghosts - that has already convinced him Legolas is the coolest fucking elf ever to walk Middle-Earth. The skill at deep-throating, however, is a wholly new and unexpected facet of the character.

Orli's eyes are closed, black eyelashes lying on his fair skin, cheeks hollowed out below those sharp cheekbones by the stretch of his jaw. Away from the harsh bleach lights of filming, the pointed tips of his ears look abnormally pink - flushed. Legolas's pale hair slides forwards, spilling over his shoulders and half-covering the shoulder carapaces. Elijah's breathing turns harsh, and Orli lifts his eyelids, looks up at Elijah, and Elijah's own eyes roll back in his head and his eyelids slide closed.

Elijah feels Orli's hands leave his hips. One reappears under his balls, pressing them up against the root of his cock, mimicking the drawing up of orgasm. The other slides around the curve of his ass, fingers insinuating between his cheeks, one finger pushing insistently at the tight pucker of his opening. Flesh yields and he feels the rich burn of callused skin against the delicate tissue. The crosscurrents of sensation are pulling him in every direction and he cries out, a sobbing yowl that threatens to break the tenuous lock on his knees.

"I can't - I can't, not like this," he pleads. "I'll be quicker lying down."

Orli pulls back, and Elijah reaches down to try to shimmy his jeans up enough to make it into the bedroom when Orli scoops him up and all Elijah can do is wrap his arm around Orli's shoulders -- the bare skin of his arm against that chill hair and rigid leather -- and hang on. Orli carries him through to the bedroom and dumps him unceremoniously onto the bed. Elijah's eyes go the alarm clock: 06:41. Four minutes.

Orli sweeps the silk and suede skirts of Legolas's shirt and tunic out his way and tugs impatiently at the cords on Legolas's leggings before taking hold of Elijah by the waist and dragging his ass to the edge of the bed. Orli drops to his knees and Elijah gasps hard when Orli's molten mouth closes again on his air-chilled flesh.

Four minute mile, no problem. Elijah's heart is hammering in his chest, trying to tear itself free of its moorings and smash itself to pieces. He's gulping down lungfuls of air, but it's not helping, not lifting the black-bright spangles from around the edges of his vision.

"Jesus Mary and fucking hell that is awesome," Elijah cries, his body arching off the bed, his thighs shaking with gathering tension, his entire being drawing tighter and tighter.

Orli's hands are all over the place, squeezing and probing and pinching, and Elijah's whole body is shaking.

"Oh God oh God you're fucking turning me inside out," Elijah sobs. "You're gonna -- I'm gonna -- right now -- right -- "

His universe collapses down to a single screaming point of red hot pleasure that suddenly explodes outwards, tearing everything inside him loose and letting it get swept away in the maelstrom pounding through his veins.

" -- NOW!"

Orli's fingers tighten down on him, Orli's mouth flexes on him, letting the crisis pass before drawing out the last shaking tremors and then gently so gently retreating. Elijah feels the coolness of tears spilling from the outer corners of his eyes and sliding over the fever-hot skin of his temples into his hair.

Orli stands up, eyes white hot, one hand wrapped around his erection. Elijah flicks a glance at the clock. 06.43. Two minutes. He struggles to sit up, trying to compel obedience from limbs still ringing with shock.

"Stay down," Orli growls, shifting his feet to stand astride Elijah's stretched out legs.

Elijah falls back gratefully, heart and chest laboring hard to make up what feels like a deficit of oxygen in the room.

Orli's hand starts working fast, long fingers wrapped around the head of his erection, mouth set and ice floe eyes narrowed in concentration.

"That looks so fucking good," Elijah breathes, too broken and exhausted to do more than lift his head a little in order to see better.

Orli's breathing hard, jaw clenched, and Elijah can see the blood-flush spreading across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose and that's --

\-- it.

Orli's mouth stretches wide but he doesn't make a sound, just leans over as if in pain and Elijah feels the heavy hot spatter of semen on the front of his tee shirt and the bare skin of his stomach. He writhes, a slow languorous stretch of satisfaction and lets his head roll to the side. The clock display trips to 06:45. Time's up.

"I gotta, fuck, I gotta get outta here," Elijah says shakily.

He rolls onto his feet, stripping his shirt off and wiping himself quickly, before the mess on his quivering skin has to chance to roll down and wreck his jeans too. He thrusts the wadded up garment at Orli and starts packing damp and tender flesh back into place.

"Nice job on the shirt," Elijah complains, grabbing up the nearest piece of clothing and dragging it on.

It's a black button-down shirt of Dom's. Elijah's already out of the trailer door, when he yells

"Tonight?"

"Of course," Orli calls after him.

Elijah careens across the open space separating the actors' trailers from the makeup and wardrobe area, swerving madly to avoid the ice chest on the ground outside the food tent. People look up, and though no one's aesthetically transported, there's something smile-inducing about the sight of Elijah sprinting headlong for the makeup trailer, chopped hair standing up in tufts and unbuttoned black shirt flying back from his pale narrow chest.


End file.
